


The Silent Song of Men

by Mister_Whimsy



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1910s, Alternate Universe - World War I, Attempted Sexual Assault, Banter, British Military, Drama, Drama & Romance, F/M, Feminist Themes, Gender Roles, Historical, Interracial Relationship, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), POV Third Person, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Romance, Soldiers, Tragedy, Tragic Romance, Trench Warfare, Unrequited Love, Vignette, War, World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-01 12:21:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2772800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mister_Whimsy/pseuds/Mister_Whimsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Marshal Yune, a 22-year-old man born to a Korean immigrant and a white nurse living in London's East End, war is an enigma, an fantastical escape from a life of poverty and heartbreak under the smog of industry. With his mother and father now passed away and with massive debts threatening to break him, the romanticized life of a writer he dreamed of seems so out of reach. Contemplating his options and with war fast approaching, a decision will be made, a decision that would doom him to the bloodied battlefield of the Western Front. There he  would find not a new life but death, cherished brotherhood, a budding romance with a spiritedly sarcastic french nurse, and a hallowed hymn called, the silent song of men.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> In Flanders fields the poppies blow  
> Between the crosses, row on row,  
> That mark our place; and in the sky  
> The larks, still bravely singing, fly  
> Scarce heard amid the guns below.
> 
> We are the Dead. Short days ago  
> We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,  
> Loved and were loved, and now we lie  
> In Flanders fields.
> 
> Take up our quarrel with the foe:  
> To you from failing hands we throw  
> The torch; be yours to hold it high.  
> If ye break faith with us who die  
> We shall not sleep, though poppies grow  
> In Flanders fields. - In Flanders Fields by John McCrae (1915)

The Silent Song of Men

Introduction

The Great War (1914-1918), better known contemporarily as World War One or the First World War, has always been a subject of history that has both fascinated and appalled me. It was a strange time to be alive in, a time that was developing the technologies, ideas and geopolitics that would change the very face of the world we live in today, both socially and economically. It has been over a hundred years since its genesis and still its influence affects us today. I think it is important that I write this not only for my own pleasure of writing a story of the war that captured and broke my heart but to open a window into a world that few ever look back at, save for a passing glance, a war of romance, suffering and blood. In the contemporary world today, I feel that we have placed an excess of attention on the bloody and mechanical aspects of wars as well as the cookie cutter social atmosphere of Women being the oppressed and Men being the oppressor when in actuality it was much more complicated than that. We often forget that human factor, the love, hate, bigotry, friendships in these wars. We heard the death tolls and see the pictures of black and white battles in our textbooks but we do not have that visceral and personal reaction that arguably we should have. That is what I wish to portray in this historical, war romance narrative. While it focuses on a male protagonist as the main character of the story, contrary to most romance narratives, it is so much more than a simple romance story. It is a depiction of the First World War from the eyes of ordinary men and women in extraordinary circumstances. Still, while this story will have significant parts dedicated to the human aspect of war and the struggles of soldiers, in the end, this story is a historical narrative with a significant romance/war drama dual-plot in episodic chapters. Themes of gender roles and inequality, brotherhood-in-arms, bittersweet romance, and the futility of war are all essential elements in what I feel are needed to be addressed in a love story in war of a reluctant soldier and a sarcastic girl daring to go beyond her call. As this is a historical fiction, there will be liberties to the real history to fit the narrative. Actual historical events and figures will follow closely as possibly to history but may be altered slightly to fit the narrative. One such liberty is the fictional military unit that is the focal military unit the main characters are attached in this narrative, the 54th Infantry Regiment-1st "Hawktail" Battalion and its attached medical unit, the 14th Nursing Volunteers Unit both of which are of the British Expeditionary Force (1914) and later Second Army-III Corps (1914-1918). Now if you are reading this then you are at least interested in a story set during the First World War and it is safe to say you know for the most part the macro causes of the descend of Europe into war. But for those that do not, I shall explain broadly the events that lead up to and caused the war to end all wars. So please, bare with me for a moment as I explain so you do not get lost.

Historical Background

The Great War (The 28th of July, 1914 - 11th of November, 1918) was a war fought with a horrid combination of the reverence of the old-fashion gentleman ways of war and the devastating new technologies of the modern age that outpaced the former coalescing in the deaths of over fifteen million military combatants and civilians. Its crucible was the Austro-Hungarian Empire's invasion of Serbia following the assassination of the Archduke Ferdinand by the Yugoslav nationalist group called, the Black Hand Secret Society. But before that, we must look at the situation that preceded the assassination of the Archduke. Long before the onset of the war, the web of alliances between the various nations of Europe entangled the countries that years later would cause their demise. Within these nations, the political atmosphere of imperialist ideals and a strong sense of nationalism inflated the people's pride and from this a disdain for their neighbors.

While Left-wing parties in the German Empire made huge gains in the election in 1912, The government at the time was still dominated by the Prussian nobility who feared the rise of the Left. The German historian, Fritz Fischer, best known for his analysis of the causes of the Great War argued famously that they deliberately attempted war to distract the populace and raise a nationalist support for the imperial government. Indeed, one German military leader stated war was "desirable in order to escape from difficulties at home and abroad". This deliberate seeking of war or at least the idea would prove a devastatingly effective at launching the nation to wartime readiness following their obligation to support their Austro-Hungarian allies whom started the war. Other argued that German conservatives were doubtful about a war, worrying that losing said war would have "disastrous consequences" for the nation, and even a successful war might tire and defeat the citizenry if it were to take significant losses in life. In the end, both were true.

In France on the other hand sang a tune towards war that was notably different from that in their eastern neighbor. In France, war appeared as a great gamble. Forty years after the land of Alsace-Lorraine was ceded to Germany from the Franco-Prussian War, a large number of French still held animosity towards the German Empire. Nevertheless, the leaders of the French Third Republic recognized Germany's military superiority to theirs and the prospect of war with Germany as a devastating repeat of the Franco-Prussian War if they continued to oppose French colonial expansionism in Africa and Asia. France was politically divided in two. The socialists advocated for peace against nationalists on the Right who called for revenge against their Prussian rivals. Leading up to the war, France had never really recovered from their defeat in 1871, nor had its military or its confident in its leaders been restored to adequate levels. But, emboldened by its great success in North Africa and the overall pacifying of its vast colonial empire did give the nation confidence that would see it through the war to come. The Entente, its defensive military alliance of 1904 with Britain and later Russia in 1907 held firm with the fellow empires, and was supported by mutual interests abroad and strong economic ties.

Russia had withdrawn from its alliance with Germany and Austria-Hungary because of disagreements with Austria-Hungary over policy in the Balkans with the Ottoman Empire and the Slavic peoples of the region which preceded the First Balkan War (1912-1913). Russia also hoped that large French investments coupled with an important military partnership in the west to counter Germany's increasing militarization would prove invaluable. Thus the Triple Entente of Great Britain, France and Russia was formed on the 31st of August, 1907.

Austria-Hungary at the time was facing a great threat represented by an emergence of nationalism within the empire's many ethnic groups, notably the Slavs of the south. Emperor Franz Joseph and others had decided that a compromise was essential in preserving the power of the German aristocracy in control of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and thus solidifying German influence on the entire region of central Europe. It often frustrated their intentions in the governance of Austria-Hungary from the increasing power of the Hungarian elite and thus losing their control over the empire was a significant threat. For example, it was extremely difficult for Austria-Hungary to form a concise foreign policy that suited the interests of both the German aristocracy and Hungarian elite.As a result, some reasoned that dealing with political deadlock required that more Slavs be brought into Austria-Hungary (From Serbia) to dilute the power of the Hungarian elite. With more Slavs, the South Slavs of Austria-Hungary could force a new political compromise in which the Germans could play the Hungarians against the South Slavs. The essential idea was to cure internal stagnation through external means. The fear of the elite was that the South Slavs, primarily under Serbia, were organizing for war against Austria-Hungary, and even all of the Germanic nations, including Germany and its allies. Some leaders argued that Serbia must be dealt with swiftly before it became too powerful to defeat. Unfortunately, this conflict of the Slavs and the Hungarian elite lead directly to the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand and the invasion of Serbia, bringing in Russia both a defensive ally of Serbia and a member of the Triple Entente. From that, a domino effect occurred which spiraled the great nations into the defense of their allies and thus plunged Europe into war. Russia declared war on Austria-Hungary, followed by Germany on Austria-Hungary's side. The Ottomans joined to oppose the Balkan nations and regain land lost during the two preceding Balkan wars. When Germany invaded France through neutral Belgium to quickly capture Paris via the Schlieffen plan, Germany had forced Great Britain into the war. In the 3rd of August, 1914, Great Britain declared war on Germany. This complex set of treaties binding the nations in Europe together before the war is thought to have greatly exasperated the spiraling of the continent into war. By the late 1800s, all the major powers were preparing for a large-scale war. However, no one expected one to actually happen.

Synopsis

It is the spring of the year 1913 and the world is in motion. The Balkans are on fire as the Balkan League faces off against the encroaching Ottomans in the First Balkan War. The Republic of China celebrates its one year anniversary. It is nearly two years since the tragedy of the Titanic. Suffragists rally forth for equal voting rights for women. And here, in London's East End, life continues as it has done since the Industrial Revolution. As the British Empire flexes its power against its rivals, poverty and despair continues to suffocate the poor district of London. For Marshal Gallagher, now 25-years-old, Life was not always so bleak. The proud son of a poor Korean immigrant and a white London nurse, life was not easy for the mixed family but nor were they struggling. In the East End, life was a challenge as it was for all the lived in that notorious district. But for Marshal, life would soon reflect that truth. After his father died in a racially motivated assault, his mother overworked herself to raise him through school and university. Now in ailing health, the roles of the two have reversed. Casting aside his dream of being a writer to take care of his mother, he accumulated heavy debts as a result. Now with the debtors casting their ever menacing shadow over him as he works multiple jobs to survive and pay off his debts. As the pressure that has weighed the raven-haired man continues to mount, the more and more Marshal slips into despair. Now as London prepares for the first Chelsea Flower Show in May, a new pressure is thrown onto Marshal. War is on the horizon. In the east, the tenuous strings that hold Europe together are being pulled to an unsustainable length. For Marshal, as his mother is growing more and more sick and with the debt collectors breathing down his neck, it seems like an endless hell for the young man. And with that hell comes desperation that would see him to the battle line trenches of France. There he will find not a freedom from hurt but death, a song so cruel it may very well leave all in despair. But more, he find in the war-torn land of France a budding bittersweet romance between him, an aloof man sent to fight for a nation that despises him and a young, sarcastic girl with a passion to help and brotherhood with comrades ready to die for him in a war so horrendously terrible that it will almost certainly leave nothing left but heartbreak and loss.

Author's Note: The next chapter will be the prologue. After that, the story will start off chronologically. Thank you for reading and I hope you will support me in this endeavor.


	2. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Story Prologue: 1st day of the Somme Offensive, 1st of July, 1916.

The Silent Song of Men

Prologue

Her Song that Trumpets a Fury

Date: 1st of July, 1916

Location: Somme-Picardy, France

Event: Somme Offensive-Battle of Albert(1st–13th of July, 1916)

Her song, it was a lovely tune. It was a blossom bursting out of a long winter frost, an ember blown to be forever lost. To some, it was a memory better left unremembered, to others a faint glimmer that speckles upon a rose in the summer air, and yet others still saw a crown of which ascended the heart to a place evergreen. Soon it would ring with the sweet sound of a woman's lullaby. However, for now it was reduced to a whisper in the scorched Frankish wind that raged forth like a devil's chime. From the wind, a sandstorm quickly ensued, kicking up bone and torn cloth of the fallen fifty thousand. A storm brewed in the east, chasing the song as it swept. Sand and black ash, bone and fire, a wall to the heavens bellowed forth towards the British and French battle line that lay anchored in the earth west of the River Somme. Upon this scarlet stained river did the British and French await their foe, humming the song as they held their share of bloodied earth. With the song in their hearts, they would hold the Rhine serpent here and not further occidental.

The enemy was hidden in the storm, using the dusting maw to hide their iron phalanx. The storm was a sand demon as it chased the song towards the entrenched British and their allies. The enemy, the German 2nd army battle harden and confident with the slaughter of the British vanguard drew nearer. A looming and coming mass drew forth like a wave of unstoppable flesh and iron and fire. The British could only watch as the faceless enemy drew forth, silhouettes within the beige veil. Before them, the grey mass marched closer and closer, trudging the vast fields of mud and death of their creation as they ignored the endless barrage artillery impacts that slammed into their seemingly endless ranks. They had no fear of the storm as they marched unchallenged, bugles blazing forth a terrible song of their own towards the British battle line. As the song drew closer to the present battlefield, it gasped like the distant crackle of faraway artillery. O' a flash of warm essence it was that dazzled the ear as it soared nearer. A taste was all that the infantrymen in the cold deep asked for. A gentle voice, a whisper in the foggy battleground was what they desired. It moaned of antebellum. How grand a time it was, the melodies before the War. The song would chime for a tiny moment in the hellfire but for now it was drowned by the screams of human carnage.

Mouthless voices spoke through the grey fog of war. They spoke like a chorus forlorn through the very real slaughter before them. A thousand voices hushed as one as they crackled and gasped the coming fate of many that did stood ready to defy them, like lambs to the slaughter that cowered in the trenches. Now here bayonets were drawn, sabres were unsheathed, and eyes fixed on this slaughtering ground before them, the burning plains flanking the Albert-Bapaume road.

The Germans sang a tune of their own, the madness of sorrowful duty. Their easterly voices were demented, screaming and hollering like damned shades as the wind tormenting all that remained alive before them in this pasture turned wasteland. The drums of the deeping, torrential storm around echoed a cry of sad horrors as the legions of valiant men of their own right marched forth.

O' how terrible a howl of grey the earth's lily croaked as it wilted to red sorrow. How terrible a hell those of dull and tired eyes withstood as they wept in those uncovered graves of theirs as the enemy drew closer with no inclination to stop. There they sat and leaned, rain pouring down their helmets and off their tattered cloaks like blood upon a slaughterhouse floor. Their feet cracked like concrete from months of dysenteric filth, their blood poisoned to that of acid. They were bogged down in the mud, trapped in this viscous gore of war's making. In this hell bog that trapped them, they waited for a voice in the air, the song's glow to shine and free them from the coming hellfire as it had done before. Their tears were scented with the acidic odor of gunpowder and their faces painted with war paint, their comrades' gore upon their brows from charges of old. All this horror could only be expunged with the melody of the song of women rallying them onward. But the song, like the winter flower bloom would be brief and unpredictable, as it would last not a moment more than needed. For now, the only sounds that graced the air were the howl of the seaward wind, the blazing trench fires and the moans of the dying and dying-to-come as rockets bellowed forth a fiery hammer. Soon the mud would be encrusted with human sinew and the wind haunted by the screams of the slaughtered and the swords and bayonets drenched in war blood. King Minos would be busy this hour, scribing away the names of the dead that would knock upon his gates. But for now, death would be appeased by a gentle whisper of a maiden's lament.

Now, on this here ragged patch of scorched earth and scarlet stained wire, a song was sung. It's radiance finally blown upon the defeated and battered in a last moment of heavenly reprieve. A fragrance of precious perfume the lullaby was as it drifted over the battlefield. But unlike the accursed fire gas of battles long past, it would not eviscerate those caught in its embrace. How merciful it was to have finally arrived at this hour. How oblivious it was to its power. It knew not of its own heart-taking hymn or its ability to quell the stench of death in these bloodied, earthen trenches. The song was God in its strength and willpower as it coursed through the battle weary foxholes, filling the battered souls full with warmth. A gentle hue of color in the once gentle sky it fluttered like that of a maiden's uncut hair. O' how it sung of summer days long passed in carefree emotion. How grand its melody was as its bells and keys were played on nimble fingers. Like church bells, it rang a gentle sonnet of his Lordship and the essence of familiar tea. Like a warm embrace, it shielded the sorrowful from the pain lashed out by the sinful. It deflected the terrible reality that pushed and pulled against their tattered banner, their sword that defied the cloud of Germanic smog to the east.

Time after time, wave after wave, they threw themselves against that unstoppable maw. And every time, they were repelled with few and few souls returning to their battle line. Tides went in and tides came back out, stained with scarlet poppy petals. A high wall of their fallen lay strewn across the battlefield, rotting and decrepit. A flesh wall rivaling even that of old Hadrian stood before them. It would soon be blasted apart by artillery to make way for the coming onslaught. Hundreds of steps away, their battle line stood. This deep, yawning trench that cradled the broken and festered sheltered the defeated behind it from fear and the hellfire around, this godforsaken mud hole called Somme. There they sat, cowering in anguish as they lamented their last failed march and the loss of their captain. Here did their captain lay fallen, a final blow to their glass hearts. How foolish they were to have abandoned him in the blinding storm of fear. Was he gone? Was he seduced by the shadow veil to never return to them? They knew not, but they did know they were to charge again soon under the gale of the song.

It was a lovely tune, how it could master a man's heart, how it enchanted an entire army to thrust themselves into oblivion. O' it was magical indeed. Those battered souls were but marionettes under its spell, sent to fight without logical cause to fulfill the duty their sex was demanded of. Did they complain? No, not a word they uttered for they were enthralled by its melody. At least, that was the case when it was sung.

What more were the rainbows of its feathery tunes, a heralding Kingfisher fluttering in the air in the grey that sulked around. It rang of summer wind, of the glorious rising sun but in the same breath whispered with a melancholy of home and love in the west. It was bitter and sweet, a taste of home brew. A heartbroken sonnet it was sung. The hymn had graced the once fertile, summer wind but now it was waning as autumn awoke. It needed his crown to rise to a higher peak, but it was dying now in the scorched mud. That crown also needed the song to rise but rise would it not by any lesser song. It had to be hers. It was beautiful, that wounded voice as it moaned a memory of spring. A memory of tranquility and innocence it was. When it was there, sung by her Ladyship, it had forged a shield within. But now it had faded from heart replaced with but a single fragment of an image, a flash of radiant hair and a voice.

And there he lay, a scarlet rose spattered upon black earth. Bloodied and broken, his limp body lay strewn across the mud, a good hundred steps in front of his army's battle line trench, just a grasp away from their fluttering banner. He was covered in mud and tangled in barbed wire. He wheezed in agony, coughing a red storm of his own. How did it come to this, his heart screamed. Charged, that he did know. But charged did he, alone, he knew not and now he lay broken and betrayed by the cowardice of weaker men. The left arm of the man was gashed above the elbow with the bite of a German artillery round. There it lay, by his side still tightly gripping his sidearm. Blood fell from his brow, even more oozing from his ghastly wound mixing with his tears and the filth of prior months of bloodshed. Bone was splintered; flesh was bitten and torn, his heart wasting away with every squeeze. Long did he lay there, unaided. Moments ago did he charge and moments ago did he fall. He could hear them cry for him. Why did he fall and no one else? Why was he left to die when no one else claimed his side?

His comrades sat and stared with horror of the grisly sight. Those of weaker heart fell back and were left unable to charge when the bugle would sound again. Guilty crowns rested upon the men's heads, a crown of thorns for their cowardice and their sickening fear. Horrid did they feel as they allowed their noble captain to fall upon German spitfire, alone. In the trench behind the captain, his men sat, restless and torn with remorse. Some were shattered; others steeled just enough to be able to muster a scream. Those that did scream cried out his name to rise and lift his sabre to lead them once again.

"Captain, O' Captain please be warm. Show us that heart that never storms!"

"Captain arise, lead us to war. Our Captain, give us not thy sadness with scorn."

"Please arise. With much anguish we ask of thee to lead us wise!"

"Thy Lordship, we beg of thee to rise."

All of this, they would cry, intone and chant out like the sand that whipped towards them in the harsh Frankish wind, the blazing breath of Europe's anguish. All this was screamed and cried to him, but he heard not a word of it. All he knew was the song. Was it a strength he had held in his heart for a time when he would pass through winter? Was it a memory of spring that doused him with joy to numb his agony like morphine? Was it a crown he wore that ascended him from sorrow? He knew not. Whatever it was, it sheltered the dying man from the bitter chill of death's grip that hovered over like the carrion birds above. Rain continued to fall down upon him, the tears of the gods themselves for their fallen hero bird. Nothing but the wind blew in his ear. How terrible it was to lay half buried in flesh and mud, a mattress of his fallen brothers. How lonely to hear nothing but God's mournful voice call for him.

Then it hit him, a song, a bright tune fluttering through his torn cloak. Like hands, they ushered him to rise again. A tear fell from his cheek from the unforgettable wonder the song held in his heart and of the fear of never seeing his lady again. It was immensible in its beauty and strength. All the cold of death's chill had left him, replaced with but a gentle simmer of the tea kettle. Lush leaves and bountiful fields of flowers of all shades of his majesty dotted the land of his memory. But he knew they were not real. These many months of fighting had torn them to ribbons. Now the flowers were gone, the leaves were rung and no song was sung again. What lovely tune dared venture into this forsaken land, this unholy battleground?

It whistled and moaned, like the grey mist that clung to the ground, low in its canter. It was the song. For a split second, he failed to recognize the tune. Lifting his bloodied face, he saw not the charging bayonets of the enemy near. Instead, he saw a field of summer growth, a painting of green pastures, the warmth of her strength and will on that lovely street.

"So, this be the Champs-Élysées? How wonderful, indeed." He uttered with the remaining air in his scorched lungs.

In his ear, he heard the song repeat again. A maiden crying a hymn for her lover lost in war that was the tunes endlessly broadcast into the wind. He was battered and blood-faced, yet he did not open his mouth and scream. He dropped his head with a splash back to the mud. He did not open his mouth. He was a lamb and he had walked himself to the slaughter when he thought he was legion. Now, as he lay in the mud, barely able to lift his eyes from the earth, he was silent. And as silent as he was, he did not open his mouth.

A man walks down the iron planks. The hooded ghoul ushers him to the rope and yet he did not cry for a voice sang, enchanting his ears with a summer flood…

"Mon trésor, come back to me." She cries. "Come back, je ne veux pas te perdre."

Mon amour, je promets, I shall return," He smiles and bows before her ladyship.

A voice sings to him, he closes his eyes and hears the song, praying to see her face again.

His eyes shoot open, a heat thrust through his body.

"Fight for her!" He shouted, lifting his head out of the mud.

He pulled himself up, gripping the ground with his good arm. Thrusting himself up, his knelt as a patron knelt before God. He hears his men gasp with surprise. They shouted and sang their relief.

"Ave! Rejoice, rejoice, our Captain lives," The men sang and cried.

A song rang through the ground.

"Pray you good humor! You are alive, he who walks among the warm," They cheer with blithe spirit.

"Ave?" He uttered under his breath.

His heart snaps, his mouth laden with hate as he turns to them all, his army.

"Pray you not I live today. How dare you rejoice from your cowardice?"

Their cheers died as they all looked up and saw as their captain struggling to stand as the enemy horde drew near. His bloodied hand gripped their banner to steady him. As he rose from the mud like a flower, his wound dripped with crimson. He jerked his head to them all. His eyes were murder, his soul on fire.

"To you, my Hawktails, I asked of you to fight, to join me and yet all cowered and left me for the slaughter. Are you not the unmastered bastards?" He growled.

"O' forgive us, Captain. Let us repent our coward hearts away. Let us fight for you." They begged.

"Why? Give me my arm? No, you will not gift me?"

"Anything we give of you with never suffice?" They asked.

He spat his blood and turned to the youngest of the men, a child too young to have felt a woman's touch.

"You,"

"Aye?" He asked.

"You have a name, correct?" The Captain asked.

"A–Aye,"

"Tell me your name," The Captain demands.

"Icarus, Icarus McCoy of York," The boy replies.

"Give me a sword and scarf, Icarus McCoy of York." The Captain demanded.

The boy nodded, unsheathing his sabre with shaking fingers and unwrapping his scarf. The sabre flew and was snatched by the man's hand with familiar memory. The scarf soon followed. Both twirled about in the wind, a surge of war blood circulated through him.

"Will you forgive our weakness?" The boy asked, shivering from the cold.

He looked at the boy. A softness radiated from the young lad. Was he like this boy once ago? He eased his heart and softened it as he saw the boy cowering in the earthen trench. He had seen many a lad like him fall upon fire and steel. But only now was he who led them to the slaughter.

"Very well," The captain relented, tying the scarf around his wound, halting the flow of crimson.

"Ave!" The men shouted.

"I thought I would have you before the sword, and all of your hearts You did vile in my sight and chose what displeases me. But now you have given your sword as good as any word."

"Captain!" They smiled, relieved and cherished.

"Fight!" He urged, raising his blade to them.

The enemy drew closer, within rifling distance.

"Bleed with me as I had bleed for you. Fight with me, charge that field with me and have them fall upon our sword!" He shouted in the air.

"For your sake we face death forever," They said.

"Then rise from the trench and raise our banner high. Come and stand by with me. Push forth and oppose them!"

"Yes! The enemy shall fall!" Some shouted.

"We are considered as sheep to be slaughtered, Captain." Shouted others.

"No. You are not sheep. We shall step as lambs forth into their fire maw, yes, but face them with lion fangs we shall, Britons!"

They roared with passion and leaped out of the trench. A hundred upon the enemy's thousand. Braced as a line, the captain raised his blade.

"With me, we fight as one!"

There they charged, expunging themselves from horror, from cowardice. They charged. They sung the song, whistling their tune, waving their blades as they charged into the German maw that blasted spitfire.

"To victory!" The Captain boomed.

They roared, pushing forth, leaping into the fire but burning not as they charged. Swords clashed, rifles volleyed, a song sung as the two sides clashed in a tempest of fire and metal. Charge did they. Sing did they, a melody their captain's whistle to live through the fire, her song that trumpets a fury.

Author's Note: For this chapter I tried for a more poetic depiction rather than a realistic one due to the fact that this is the opening. Anyway, the next chapter will begin the narrative from the beginning. I will not be doing these Author's note for every chapter. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the prologue and I hope it has made you interested in the story.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: This is a historical romance but it is much more than that, themes of war, sorrow, hopelessness and tragic loss will be as important if not more so in this a bittersweet romance between an aloof, troubled man sent to fight for a nation that despises him and a young, sarcastic girl with a passion to help and brotherhood with comrades ready to die for each other in a war so horrendously terrible that it will almost certainly leave nothing left but heartbreak and loss.


End file.
